


anything we have known

by Hinterlands



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, you will notice that i have avoided writing dialogue as studiously as possible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 17:45:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4272300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hinterlands/pseuds/Hinterlands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She has sought truth, and found it in the winning glint of Josephine’s smile, the arch of her body against her in the velvet depths of night, the high, clear, even chime of her laughter; there are whole worlds condensed between them, a gravity that threatens to pluck the breath from her lungs, summarily strums and snaps her heartstrings one by one by one; <em> when had it come to this? </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	anything we have known

Cassandra is enamored with Josephine’s freckles.

That is not to say that Cassandra is not enamored with the whole of her; (in reality, it is almost impossible to say where her eyes or hands or lips linger longest--the elegant line of her throat, the swell of her hips, the pillowy flesh of her stomach, or her full, inviting  mouth—that, in particular).

The freckles are a novelty, a favored facet; her lips roam the places where the fierce Antivan sun kissed the ambassador’s satin skin in years past, starburst stretches of dark flecks where Cassandra always least expects to find them; the smattering across the bridge of Josephine’s nose is a given, as are those flecking the rise of those smooth brown shoulders, but the dusting at the side of her throat, the crook of her elbow- those are surprises, welcome additions to the wealth of knowledge she’s silently compiling regarding Josephine’s body to lock away in the vault of her memory.

(It should surprise her how fiercely she cherishes these discoveries; somehow, the feeling is as natural as breathing.)

* * *

 

Josephine, likewise, seems entirely enamored with the tracery of scars lacing Cassandra’s body; she’s ever-content to pause and map the puckered surface of them beneath velvet fingertips whenever the Seeker’s undershirt rides high over the hard planes of her belly and back, her touch always cool, cautious, exploratory, as if afraid of eliciting even the slightest of winces. Cassandra, for the most part, bears the roaming of curious hands with rare good humor, shuddering whenever those palms brush a sensitive hollow, following fault lines.

(To Josephine, they are history, landmarks of years and battles past, victories won hard and valiantly; here, the ragged V of a dragonling’s bite, there, a deepset slash from a bandit lord, each jagged scar a story, chapters written and closed; it thrills her, silently, achingly, to watch new history unfolding across Cassandra’s battle-tested body, to run her fingers over the puckered pink trench of a new scar, feel it punctuate the days they’re setting into ink and stone together.)

* * *

 

There are myriad mutual pleasures in all things, but especially this; long, lazy nights curled up on the woven rug before the hearth, cups of mulled wine in hand and a thick quilt settled over their shoulders; shared baths in basins whose water is spiked with drops of rose-scented oils, lathering hair, skimming damp, exploratory fingers over the loose arcs of backs and shoulders, everything narrowed down to the languid press of bodies beneath warm, steaming water, Josephine settled between Cassandra’s open, inviting legs, her back against the Seeker’s taut, toned belly.

Cassandra’s favorite by far, however, is the kissing, though not only the idle slant of mouths; the Seeker’s lips roam far afield, peppering soft kisses over the slope of a freckled shoulder, open-mouthed against the pulse-point of Josephine’s throat just to feel the resulting shudder ripple through her. In quiet moments, she’ll take the ambassador’s hand to press a moth-wing’s light kiss to the invisible sprawl of veins beneath the skin of her wrist, give a slow, private smile for the breathy, contented sigh it merits her; from there, a kiss to the heel of Josephine’s palm, the back of her hand, eyes closed, focusing intently on the slip of skin beneath her lips, mapping lines of sinew, the jut of bone leading into elegant fingers.

Josephine retaliates with abandon when they’re tangled together beneath thick blankets to escape the deepening chill of Skyhold’s nights, trailing her mouth along the neat, knitted line of the scar adorning Cassandra’s right cheek, pressing fluttering kisses to her calloused fingertips, the very corner of her mouth, a teasing _follow-me_ that Cassandra never hesitates to rise to. Even deep in desperation, lips moving clumsy and fierce despite the messy risk of teeth clashing, there is warmth to be found. There is always warmth to be found.

* * *

 

Josephine stumbles upon Cassandra’s cache of _literature_ onlya few months after they truly acclimate to the rhythm of this strange, precious thing between them, the concept of _you and I, together;_ perhaps the Seeker had not hidden them so studiously as she should have, or perhaps it was an impossibly rare moment of carelessness; regardless, Josephine knows, and Cassandra knows she knows, and neither deigns to broach the subject (beyond the telltale pinking of the Seeker’s cheeks whenever Josephine so much as raises an eyebrow at the jealously guarded chest of _personal belongings_ she keeps by the mat she calls her bed) for days afterwards.

(It’s Josephine who breaks the silence just as Cassandra’s hackles finally begin to lie flat, voice bright and brisk with false flippancy as, over the remnants of dinner, well-used candles burned down to pale wax nubs and flickering on the verge of suffocation around them, she asks for a _plot synopsis._

Josephine maintains for months afterwards that the rose-red blush the question elicited had to be the best she’d wrung out of Cassandra so far. She does not deign to admit that she accepted the books when they were offered, but much preferred to read over Cassandra’s shoulder as she reclined between Josephine’s legs.)

* * *

 

One night, reverent hand following the bump of Josephine’s ribcage as the Antivan lays silent in slumber against her, head tucked beneath her chin, dark curls pulled from their usual chignon tickling the ridge of her collarbone, Cassandra watches the gentle rise-and-fall of her breast, and wonders, _when had it come to this?_

She has sought truth, and found it in the winning glint of Josephine’s smile, the arch of her body against her in the velvet depths of night, the high, clear, even chime of her laughter; there are whole worlds condensed between them, a gravity that threatens to pluck the breath from her lungs, summarily strums and snaps her heartstrings one by one by one; _when had it come to this?_

_Perhaps,_ Cassandra reflects, a slow smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as Josephine shifts, mumbles something hoarse and incoherent into the hollow of the Seeker’s throat, _perhaps it snuck up on me._

She can’t say she’s ever been more delighted to be ambushed.

**Author's Note:**

> These ficlets were inspired in part by mustachioedoctopus' art on tumblr; thank you for providing me with the means to write about these terrible, beautiful dorks. <3
> 
> (title is from Kina Grannis' "In Your Arms"!)


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